


Being Somebody Else

by Eowyn315



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Drama, F/M, POV First Person, Post Season 2, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eowyn315/pseuds/Eowyn315
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy is trying to start over in LA - until someone shows up that she never expected to see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anne

I have a secret.

I really hate waiting tables. People say it’s like a rite of passage or something - every teenager has to have a crappy job, it builds character. Well, I’ve got enough character, thank you. I’ve got all the character I can stand. But I needed a job, and this was the best I could find, so here I am waitressing in Hell’s Kitchen.

Okay, so that’s not the real name. It’s Helen’s Kitchen, the little diner at 60th and Figueroa, but Ellie, one of the waitresses I work with, nicknamed it that and it stuck. I guess all the good waitressing jobs were taken by out-of-work actors (after all, this _is_ L.A.) and us high school dropouts trying to escape our pasts just have to make do with what’s left.

I glance over to my section, where two surly men have seated themselves. Great. My shift is almost over and I haven’t had nearly enough sexual harassment today, so I’m really thankful that these guys are here for me in a pinch.

Wow, do I sound bitter or what? It’s just, you know, I’ve been here long enough that I can pretty much identify the different types of people that come in here. These kinds of guys? Never a good sign. With a sigh, I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron, pull out my pad and pen, and head over to the table.

“Hi, my name is Anne. I’ll be your waitress. Can I take your order?”

I stand there and endure the lewd comments – they’re pretty much standard by now – and jot down the orders before heading back to the kitchen.

“Two specials, Don,” I say, shoving the ticket into the clip in front of the cook. Don is a gruff black man with a smattering of gray in his hair, and he’s worked at the diner for close to forever. I don’t know how he could stand it for that long, but he’s got this brusque yet sweet thing going on that makes me like him. Maybe I’m just hard up for a father figure.

“Sure thing, Annie,” he says. I like when he calls me Annie. It reminds me of orphan Annie, and how she had a tough life but things turned out pretty good in the end. That’s all I wanted in life, a happy ending. But, as it turns out, life’s not a musical. Mine’s more like a Shakespearean tragedy. Hard-knock life indeed.

Ellie is the other waitress on tonight, and when I come back to the kitchen she’s leaning against the counter snapping her gum. Ellie is in her mid-thirties, but looks about a decade older. She says having kids made her age. She’s a single mother of two little boys who she brings to work sometimes, when she can’t find a babysitter. She lets them play in one of the booths at the back of the diner, which is totally against the rules, but the manager’s only here during the day, and none of the night staff are going to narc on one of our own.

“Show off your tits a little, you’ll get a better tip,” Ellie tells me, miming a gesture of unbuttoning the top button of her work uniform. She must have seen my current customers.

“She don’t need to,” Don says, waving a spatula at the two of us. “She’s a looker.”

I blush. I’m petite and blonde, and I used to be really popular when I was in high school. At my first high school, anyway. Then some things happened and… well, that’s not important. The point is, I know I’m pretty, but the kind of attention I attract now, in this part of town… well, let’s just say it’s a far cry from being homecoming queen.

Don shoots a look at Ellie. “You show ’em your tits. You need all the help you can get.”

She scowls at him, and I chuckle a little. Those two have worked the night shift together for years, and if bitching at each other were a sport, they’d be gold medalists. Sometimes I keep score – so far tonight Don’s winning, 14-6.

I expect Ellie to get in a return shot to even the score a little, but instead she turns back to me. “Your shift’s almost over, sweets.”

Don’t I know it. I cast a longing look at the clock on the wall. Almost eleven-thirty. I’m done at midnight. “I’ve just got that one table.”

“Skip out early,” Don suggests. “Ellie’ll take your table.”

I weigh my options. The extra tip would be nice. But on the other hand, I’m tired and my feet are killing me and if I don’t get a back massage soon, I’m sure I’ll develop scoliosis or something. So, yeah, I’m pretty desperate to get out of here as soon as possible. I look over to Ellie, to see if she’s down with Don’s idea.

She waves her hand at me in a “shoo” motion. “You’re young. Go have fun.”

I smile at her gratefully and pull off my apron. I’m thrilled to get out of here, but being young and having fun aren’t really on the agenda. I’ve had to grow up pretty fast, with everything that’s happened to me. I’m only seventeen, but I’ve seen too much to just be a kid like everyone else my age. Besides, having fun costs money, and I’ve got to save every penny to pay for such extravagant things like food and rent.

Even though it’s thirteen blocks, I walk home to my apartment. Well, “hovel” would be a more accurate description. Like the diner, it’s on the wrong side of town, and takes up half the second floor of a run-down apartment building stuck between an abandoned warehouse and a seedy bar.

Home, sweet home.

I cut through an alley and get a chill that has little to do with the southern California weather. I wrap my arms tighter around myself and keep up a brisk pace. I’m not stupid. I know that a girl like me walking alone at night is a prime target, so I always stay on my guard.

I wouldn’t mind if someone offered to walk me home, but no one does. I’m alone, basically, in a strange city, no family, no friends. If anything did happen to me, there’d be no one to even notice until I didn’t show up to work. I know, not the most comforting thought, but as my mother would no doubt say if she saw me, “You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.” I’ve never totally understood what that means – why bother making the bed if you’re just gonna get back in it? – but I don’t think that’s the point. The point is, Mom’s not here, nobody’s here, and it was my choice, so I’m walking home alone.

I’m almost there when two men leap out of the shadows and block my path. “Look at you,” one of them growls. “Pretty little thing, all alone at night.”

I freeze. I can sense at least two more sneaking up behind me, so turning and running is out of the question. Doesn’t stop that fight-or-flight instinct from pumping me full of adrenaline, though.

“Didn’t nobody ever tell you it ain’t safe for little girls out here?” says the other man in front of me. He snickers and takes a step closer.

I back up and one of the men grabs me from behind. I let out a shriek and lash out in what turns out to be a literal knee-jerk reaction, hitting him with more force than he was probably expecting from a girl my size. Flinging my fist backwards over my shoulder, I punch him square in the nose, then twist and knee him in the groin.

Yeah, I know self-defense. Told you I wasn’t stupid. Oh, and that instinctual multiple-choice question? I’ll take fight. Every time.

As my attacker falls to the ground wincing in pain, I spin around to size up my other opponents. With a collective snarl, all three slide into their game faces.

I sigh. “You just can’t leave me alone, can you?”

One of the vampires, the first one who’d spoken, grabs me by the throat. “What did you say?”

I kick him in the chest, and he stumbles backwards, losing his grip on me. “You picked the wrong girl to mess with,” I say, pulling a stake out of my pocket and assuming a ready position.

See, I have a secret. I’m a vampire slayer.

Apparently undeterred by my demonstration of skills or my stake, the two uninjured vampires attack me. I spin, hitting one with the heel of my hand, then backhanding the other.

One of them comes lunging at me, and I hold out the stake so he runs right into it. One down, three to go. I spot a trash can in the alley and heave it at the next vamp that gets near me. He goes down, but only for a minute, and then I’ve got two coming at me at once.

I’m trained for this, I know the moves, but it’s been awhile, and the kicks are a little slow. One goes down with a kick in the face, but the other manages to duck and then he pulls my legs out from under me. I hit the ground with a thump, the pavement knocking the wind out of me. I vault myself back up, and my muscles remember this as the adrenaline _really_ starts to kick in. I do a spin-kick-elbow jab thing that gets one of the vamps out of my way, only to be grabbed from behind again. His hands clamp down on my upper arms, and I bend forward, jerking my shoulders and heaving him over my head into the wall. He lets go and slumps to the ground. I stake him before he has a chance to get up.

There’s two of them now, and they come at me from either side. I jump up, do a kind of split in midair, kicking them both, but it’s clumsy and one gets it a lot harder than the other. The one who got the weaker kick doesn’t even go down, and he’s coming at me before I can really recover.

He throws me, and I let out a grunt as my back hits the wall. I’m stunned for a second, can’t think, just looking up at my attacker with wide eyes. Then, all of a sudden, I’m showered with broken glass and sticky liquid, and the vampire’s crumpling to the ground, a bottle broken over his head.

“Buffy?”

I stare at the person who’s just come to my aid, disbelief written across my face. “Spike?”

Before I can even form a coherent sentence, Spike’s turned around, black duster swirling behind him, and he’s staking the other vampire. I make quick work of the concussed vamp at my feet, then square off with Spike. 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smirks, a hint of swagger in his stance. “Saving your ass, it would seem. You can thank me anytime, love.”

I punch him in the face. “You want me to thank you?” I stare at him incredulously as he rubs his jaw.

“Hey! That was a good bottle of bourbon I wasted on you.” Spike pouts a little, scrunching up his nose and turning his big baby blues on me. “Wouldn’t kill you to show some gratitude.”

Gosh, if he weren’t my mortal enemy, I might actually be swayed by that routine. I roll my eyes at him in disgust. “Sorry, I’m still stuck on the ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ You were supposed to take Dru and leave the country, remember? That was our deal.”

“Well, Dru didn’t like that deal much.”

I cock back my fist to slug him again, and he dances out of reach with considerable grace, especially when you realize he’s wearing combat boots.

“She left the country all by herself and told me if I was so chummy with the Slayer, I should just go back to her.” He emphasizes the last bit by angrily kicking at an empty beer can.

“So, now you’re… saving me. From vampires.” Stranger things have happened to me, but not much. And that’s saying a lot, because I’ve seen stuff you wouldn’t believe.

Spike shrugs. “If anyone’s going to kill you, it’s gonna be me.”

“I can’t tell you how comforting that’s not.”

“Last time I saw you, figured Angel’d be doing the honors.” He looks at me with what I think is admiration. “Guessing you beat him though, being as you’re still here.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” I mutter, and I start heading toward my apartment again. I probably shouldn’t let Spike know where I live, but he can’t get in without an invitation, and I really just want to get away from here.

And I don’t want to talk about Angel. Especially not with _him_.

See, here’s the thing. Spike called me Buffy back there, in the alley. That’s my real name. I’ve been going by Anne – it’s my middle name – ever since I ran away, but the truth is, I’m Buffy. Buffy Summers, the Chosen One. The vampire slayer.

And the thing I’ve been running away from? That’s Angel. My boyfriend… ex-boyfriend. Also a vampire. I fell in love with him when he had a soul, but then he lost his soul and he was evil and I had to kill him.

That’s the short version, anyway. Like I said, I don’t really want to talk about it.  



	2. The Slayer

Spike doesn’t seem to care that I don’t want to talk about it, and he follows me all the way back to my apartment. “What happened?” he asks me, over and over. “How’d you beat the bloody poof?”

I hate it when he calls Angel that. Angel had two sides to himself, but neither one of them was a “bloody poof.” The guy I loved was sweet and sensitive, but also brave and strong and a warrior who fought beside me in the battle against evil. The guy I killed was sadistic, ruthless, a monster who thrived on blood and pain and fear.

Neither one of them was a poof.

I fumble with my keys, which gives Spike the chance to size up my living arrangements. “Nice place, Slayer,” he drawls, with just the faintest edge of sarcasm. “Decided you wanted to see how the other half lived, did you?”

I backhand him across the face, keys still clenched in my fist, but he just laughs. “Shut up, Spike,” I say, even though I know it’s useless. You can’t make Spike shut up. I should kill him before he decides to end this weird impromptu truce we’ve got going on, but he did kinda just save my life.

It usually takes at least three tries to get my door open on a regular day, let alone when I’ve got a vampire watching over my shoulder, but finally I get the damned thing unlocked and I hurry inside.

Spike waits in the doorway. “Don’t I get an invite?”

“No.”

I try to close the door but he’s lightning fast and there’s a stake jammed in between the door and the frame, and he manages to pry it back open again without ever crossing the threshold.

“Be seeing you around,” he says, and I’m not quite sure if his tone is menacing or not. “…Anne.”

My eyes widen, and my hand flies to the nametag still pinned to my work uniform. Spike’s lips curl into a grin, and he tosses the stake at me. He backs away a few steps, then spins, black coat awhirl, and he’s out of sight in an instant. The thought briefly occurs to me that I should get a long coat like that. The swirly thing is kinda cool looking, like a superhero’s cape or something.

Then I remember that I don’t want to be a superhero anymore.

I sink down on my bed – just a dingy mattress on the floor – and try to steady my rapidly beating heart. It makes me feel vulnerable, that someone from Sunnydale, someone from my past, has found me. I wanted to forget it all, pretend it happened to some other girl, but I can’t because now he knows and it’s all wrong. He’s intruding on my new world, my carefully constructed me, the girl who doesn’t fight vampires and just wants to be left alone.

I remember a line from something I read once: “Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.” That’s me. I don’t know how to deal with all the bad, so I put it away, lock it up.

I didn’t tell anyone about Angel. No one could possibly understand, and so I shut them all out, left them all behind. And I was doing okay, not great, but I mean, considering… until _he_ , of all people, has to show up and bring it all back again.

Well, I won’t let him. He doesn’t have control over me. I never have to see him again, and if I do, I can kill him, and then he’ll never bother me again.

*****

The next day, I push away all thoughts of Spike and the past and go about my normal routine. I go into work at noon. Twelve hour shift again today, and I’ll be dead tired at the end of it, but money’s money and I need it. I manage to lose myself in the mindless work until the dinner rush starts winding down, and that’s when Ellie comes into the kitchen to find me. She’s been having a good day – beating Don 9-5 and widening the gap.

“There’s a fella, asked to sit in your section,” she tells me, with a wink and a knowing nod that says I have an admirer.

“What?” I say, momentarily flustered, because who would come to see me? Then I see him, and I stop, my chest tightening with anger and fear and a few other emotions I don’t bother to sort out.

“What do you want?” I demand, my arms crossed over my chest.

Spike reclines in the booth, one arm draped along the back, and looks thoughtful for a moment. “Hmmm. I don’t know.” I glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “The specials look good, but I think I’ll have to see the menu,” he says, that trademark smirk smeared across his face.

“We don’t serve anything that suits your tastes,” I spit back at him. Gross blood-sucking monster.

He raises his eyebrows, the picture of innocence. “You talk to all your customers like this? No wonder you live in that shithole, you must get fuck-all in tips.”

I slam a menu down on the table in front of him. He doesn’t flinch, though a few other customers pause to stare. “What,” I repeat, this time through gritted teeth, “do you want?”

“New York Strip steak,” he replies, handing the menu back to me without even glancing at it. “Rare as they can make it.” He flashes me a grin, and it’s all I can do not to stake him right on the spot. But there are too many witnesses, so I turn on my heel and march back to the kitchen.

“New York Strip, well done,” I tell Don. Ellie gives me an excited “well?” expression. I just glare at her in response.

“Sides?” Don asks.

“Huh?”

“With the steak. Your boy gets two sides.”

I couldn’t care less what sides Spike wants. “Lima beans,” I say, after a moment’s thought. What? I’m seventeen. Lima beans are the ultimate form of gastronomic revenge. If only we served brussels sprouts. “Whatever you want for the other.”

“He’s a cute one,” says Ellie. “Little too Billy Idol, but you kids are into that nowadays, aren’t you?”

“He’s bad, Ellie,” I retort. “Someone I never wanted to see again.”

Realization dawns on her face, and I can see her drawing the conclusion: ex-boyfriend. Not quite true, but “mortal enemy I once teamed up with to kill my ex-boyfriend” just doesn’t have the right ring to it, so I let her think what she wants.

Ellie gives Don a look. “You want us to get rid of him?” she asks me. “Escort him off the premises?” She looks moderately excited by the idea, and I’m amused by the mental image of Ellie dragging Spike out by his ear and tossing him on the pavement outside, all the while giving him a stern scolding as if he were one of her little brats.

Nevertheless, I shake my head. I’m the only one who can deal with Spike. As soon as Ellie or Don got him outside, he’d probably bite them. “I wouldn’t be opposed to arsenic in his dinner, though.”

Don gives me a sympathetic smile. “You got it, Annie.”

When his food is ready, I drop Spike’s plate in front of him and slide into the booth across from him. He looks somewhat surprised at me sitting there, but he doesn’t comment, just picks up his silverware and digs in.

I sit in silence, watching him. He makes a face at the lima beans and slices open his baked potato, jerking his hand away when steam rises from it. It seems to take him forever to fix that damned potato, but finally, he looks at me. “Did you want something, pet?”

“How did you find me?”

He’s startled by the question. “I didn’t,” he says. “I wasn’t looking for you. Never wanted to see your bloody face again, to tell the truth. Just happened to see you in that alley there.”

“So, it was just one big coincidence that you happened to be in the same city as me, and you _happened_ to be walking down the same alley where I _happened_ to be getting attacked by vampires.”

Spike shrugs. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…”

I roll my eyes. I’m so not in the mood. “And showing up at my diner? I guess that’s a coincidence, too?”

He looks at me like I’m stupid. “No, that I did on purpose.”

“Why?”

“What are you doing here?”

He says it in a tone of voice that almost answers my question, but that only leaves me more confused. Why would Spike be concerned about me? If he’s not here to kill me, what’s he doing at all?

“Fine,” he says, and I realize I’ve been staring at him without answering for a while now. “No questions.”

“What?”

“About the past, about what either one of us is doing in L.A., about anything else we don’t want to talk about.”

I scramble out of the booth and stand up abruptly. “We’re not talking about anything. We don’t – we’re not friends.”

“Fine, have it your own bloody way, then.” Spike turns back to his dinner. I have the fleeting thought that vampires don’t usually eat people food, but my curiosity is swallowed by my desire to get the hell away from him. I tear off his check from the pad and slap it down on the table. “Pay at the counter,” I mutter, right before I flee to the kitchen.

The next time I come out he’s gone, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m actually surprised he’s left a decent tip, but as I slip the money into my pocket I finger the stake I still keep there, mostly out of habit. Next time, I promise myself. William the Bloody’s going down.

I don’t get out of work until almost twelve-thirty. Some drunk couple wandered in and wanted pie, and since I left early last night, I figured I ought to stay and take their table, even though I knew I’d get a crappy tip. When I finally go home, all I want to do is sleep, but there’s a commotion in the alley that attracts my attention. Someone’s knocked over a metal trash can, and it clatters to the ground and rolls until it hits a wall. Then I hear a woman’s voice, whimpering. I sprint around the corner, but it’s too late.

It’s Spike, of course, and when he sees me, he drops the dead girl and flashes me a toothy, bloody grin. “I was waiting for you,” he says, still wearing his game face, “but I just got so bored.”

“I told you I didn’t want to talk.” My hand is in my pocket now, fingers curled around the stake.

Spike glances down at the girl at his feet and licks his lips. “You think I came here to talk?” He laughs, and a shiver goes up my spine. “I came to finish this.”

“Fine,” I say, pulling the stake out and raising my arm to striking position. “Let’s finish it.”  



	3. The Vampire

You know, you try to help a bird out once in a while, and what do you get for your trouble? Not bloody much, I tell ya. ’S why I don’t believe in being nice. No good deed goes unpunished, right?

I mean, here I am, minding my own business, having a grand old time of things in L.A. Missing Dru a bit, yeah, but she’ll come back. She always does. She’ll have one of her fits – oh, she has marvelous fits, all screaming and crying and hair-pulling and throwing her dollies around – and she’ll storm off, swearing she never wants to see heads or tails of me ever again. But she always comes back, my girl does.

What? You thought we never had a row? Oh, we have our bust-ups, just like any other pair. Doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. Been together for a hundred years, me and Dru, and we’ve gone off each other now and again, but it’s always for just a bit, then we’re back at it, better than ever. She’s my queen.

So where was I? Right. Sticking my neck out for someone, and getting no thanks for it.  Namely, the Slayer. _She’s_ the reason Dru’s up and left me this time. Dru got herself all bent out of shape because I teamed up with the Slayer not too long ago to bring down Angelus. I say it was good strategy, real outside-the-box thinking. Dru called it betrayal. Come on, love, I’m a vampire. You think I give a whit about betrayal? I’m almost glad she’s gone off, now I don’t have to listen to her whinge about bloody Angel.

Only problem is, without Dru around, I get bored, y’see, and I go looking for trouble. Like helping out the Slayer. I didn’t mean to, just saw her there in that alley. So I helped her out a bit, seeing as how we had that truce and all, and besides, no fun killing her if she’s already dead.

So why’d I go to that diner where she works? I dunno, really. Just like a kid with a stick, I guess, poking at a snake in the grass, waiting for it to snap up and bite me. What can I say? I’m a thrill-seeker. I like danger, flirting with death. And what’s better than taunting the Slayer?

But there’s something different about her now. Something… sad. Like the fire’s gone out. And before I even realize I’m doing it, I start _caring_ about her.

“What are you doing here?” I say, and there’s emotion in my voice, because I just can’t understand it. The Slayer doesn’t belong in some dingy, run-of-the-mill diner on the wrong side of the tracks, indistinguishable from any other runaway kid, lost in the shuffle of a vast, unfeeling, unforgiving city. It goes against everything I know and understand about slayers. They’re strong, they’re fierce, and they don’t quit. ’S why I put so much pride in killing ’em.

She doesn’t answer me, which makes me think it has something to do with Angel. That’s what made her shut down last night, too. Figures. It’s always about him. Story of my bloody unlife.

“Fine,” I say. I can understand when a person doesn’t want to talk. Some things you just need to keep to yourself. “No questions.”

She looks at me, all confused-like. “What?”

“About the past, about what either one of us is doing in L.A., about anything else we don’t want to talk about.”

I think it’s a pretty decent arrangement, but she jumps out of the booth like the damned thing’s caught fire. “We’re not talking about anything,” she says. “We don’t – we’re not friends.”

“Fine, have it your own bloody way, then,” I say. See what I mean? I put out a little kindness, show a little concern, and she throws it back in my face. Well, forget her. Truce is over, bitch.

My dinner’s overcooked, so I leave it – along with a hefty tip she so didn’t earn – and head out in search of real food. I prowl around a bit, nab a whore off a street corner, but she’s no trouble, and then the blood’s near bubbling in my veins and I need a decent spot of violence to settle me down.

I notice I’m near the Slayer’s fleapit of an apartment building and a grin creeps across my face. This is it. Tonight’s the night.

I’ve no idea what time it is, nor what time she gets off work, but I decide to wait around anyway. I’m antsy at first, dancing on the balls of my feet, kicking off the walls of the alley behind her building, throwing a practice punch or two. Then I’m really bored, and I’m starting to think she’s never coming home. I’m about to give up when I hear someone coming. A woman. It’s not her, probably a neighbor or something, putting out the trash. I figure she’ll do, and my teeth are buried in her neck before she has a chance to scream. She drops the trash can and it makes a noise I can’t avoid, but so what if someone comes? I’ll kill them, too.

She’s already limp in my arms, and her heart’s slowing down, getting irregular, but her blood’s sweet and goes down smooth. I sense someone coming around the corner, and then I smile because it’s _her_. 

She makes me laugh at first, thinks I’m here to talk some more. “I came to finish this,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow on me, and I can see she’s ready for it, too. She pulls out a stake. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s finish it.”

We dance around each other at first, slowly, taking it in, feeling things out. She moves first, anxious, impatient, and it’s a wide blow that’s easily deflected.

“Out of practice, love?”

She tries again, and this time she catches me on the chin. “It’s starting to come back to me.”

She sounds confident, but I can hear her heart racing like a steam train, and there’s real fear in her eyes when I lunge for her. I’m not going for the kill just yet, so I let her knock me aside. I roll with her punch, absorbing it, and then the heel of my boot connects with her temple. She stumbles but doesn’t fall, and recovers with a kick to my chest that sends me flying down the alley.

Whew. Knocked the wind out of me. But the adrenaline’s flowing and I’m back up in a flash. “Is that the best you’ve got? Truly pathetic, pet. Moping over your boyfriend has done _nothing_ for your technique.”

Now we’re really going at it, matching blow for blow, slamming each other around, rough and dirty, just the way I like it. This is what I’ve been missing; it’s been too long since I really got into a scuffle, a knock-down, drag-out fight for your bloody life.

But I can’t help thinking something’s not right. It’s good, better than I’ve had in a long time, but it’s not her A-game. I remember the last time I saw her in action. The swordfight with Angelus, best I’d ever seen of her. God, when she was on, she moved with a speed and grace that was unequaled.

“You really are out of practice, aren’t you?” She doesn’t answer, just goes into a roundhouse kick, which I dodge. “I reckon those vamps last night were the first you’ve fought since you left Sunny-D.”

She’s not at her best and she knows it, too. She’s frustrated, her moves frantic and unfocused. She’s not even quipping like usual. I’m about to say something smartass, but I forget it as she throws an elbow in my face and the blood rushes through my nose. With a roar that’s about equal parts pain and pure ecstasy, I throw her into the fire escape, and the damned thing nearly comes crashing down on top of her.

“So, has it solved all your problems, pet? Running away? No need to face your friends with what you’ve done. Or your Watcher.” The fire escape’s swaying, hanging there by a few bolts, and she rips it right off the wall and swings it at me, her face a mask of wild desperation.

I go down with a stream of curses. Scrambling my way out of the fire escape, I break off a length of metal and wield it like a baseball bat, hitting her over and over, across her back and shoulders.

“Oh, if your Watcher could see you now. He’d be so proud.”

She curls in on herself at first, trying to shield herself from the blows, but then she bursts out of it and jerks the rod out of my hand, jabbing it into my chest, just below the collarbone on the right side.

“Go to hell,” she snarls.

I howl in pain and rip the bloody thing out. I’m about to go for the physical attack, but for once in my life I think before I act. Staring her right in the eye, I deliver my blow: “What, like Angel? Shall I give him a message for you?”

She freezes in shock, then slowly her face goes slack and the flush on her cheeks from all the exertion disappears, the color just draining away until she’s white as a sheet. I go at her again, and we trade a few more punches, but now she’s just brushing them aside without really going for it, y’know? And I get that feeling again, same as back at the diner, like the fire’s gone out of her.

I realize this is gonna be easy. After all that build-up the past year, all the trash-talking, the sparring we’ve done – all just foreplay for the grand event – it’s gonna be cake. I throw her to the ground, shove her face into the pavement, then stamp down on her spine. Give ’er a little taste of how it feels to have a bloody _organ_ dropped on your back.

She cries out and rolls onto her side, but she doesn’t try to get up. She moans when I drag her up again, toss her against the wall. I lean in for the kill, can just about taste her blood on my lips…

“Bloody hell,” I mutter, pulling away and slipping out of my game face.

She’s about as stunned as I am. “What?”

“It’s no fun!” I sigh and kick at the ground. “Where’s the bloody challenge?”  
   
“I’m not a challenge?” Her tone is dry, as though she’s trying to sound surprised and disappointed, but she’s too tired.

“Not in this state, you’re not. Oh, you fight a good round, but your heart’s not in it.” I run my appraising eyes over her. “Look at you. I could bite you, kill you right here, and you probably wouldn’t even try to stop me.”

I can tell her first instinct is to disagree with me, but as I watch, she blushes, slumps a little, and I know I’m right. “What’s the matter with you, Slayer?”

She throws her head back with an exasperated groan. “God, just _kill_ me already! I’d rather you kill me than keep _talking_ to me!”

I smile slightly. “Not tonight, pet.”


	4. Buffy

Before I really know what’s happening, Spike is helping me up the stairs to my apartment. I make a half-hearted attempt to resist him, but I’m no more successful at fighting him off now than I was in the alley.

I feel nauseous – the knowledge that Spike nearly killed me is twisting a knot in my stomach. The funny thing is, I’m not afraid of him. Maybe I should be, but all I feel is disgust with myself, that I failed so miserably.

Let’s add a nice, fat “again” to that statement. It seems like all I’ve been doing is failing, screwing up, letting people down, letting people get hurt, ever since that night. My birthday. When Angel and I…

We reach my door, and I struggle with my keys as usual. Finally, Spike takes them out of my hands, unlocks the door, and gives it a good shove to get it open. I step over the threshold and turn back to face him. I feel like I should thank him, but the idea of thanking him for not killing me seems absurdly unwarranted.

“You should get some rest,” Spike says, ducking his head a bit, as if he’s not sure what he’s doing, either. He starts to leave, then turns back. “Don’t be so down on yourself, love. You did save the bloody world, after all.”

It’s true. I did. I killed the only guy I ever loved in order to save the world. Noble of me, huh?

Except…

“He got his soul back in the end.”

Spike looks at me, puzzled.

“Willow was able to do a spell that restored his soul. He – he didn’t know what had happened, couldn’t remember at first. But the vortex was already open and I had to… even with the soul.”

“Must have been hard,” he says. I stare at him. Is he seriously trying to sympathize with me?

The expression on his face tells me that he is, and I realize that what he said in the alley was true. Not tonight. Whatever this reprieve is, whatever grace there is in Spike not killing me, it means that, just this once, we can relate to each other as something other than enemies.

“Come in, Spike,” I say.

He hesitates before stepping through, as if he’s not sure I really meant it and the insincere invitation might not have worked or something. But it did, and he’s in my apartment, and he might come back and kill me tomorrow, but that’s something I’ll worry about tomorrow because right now I feel like this is important.

“Would you like anything?” I ask, knowing I have little to offer.

“No, thanks.”

“Tea? I could make tea.”

“I’m all right, Buffy.”

I’m a little startled – he hardly ever uses my real name. I think he’s a little startled, too, because he suddenly fixates on the nametag pinned to my uniform. He runs his fingers lightly across it and asks, “Why Anne?”

“It’s my middle name.”

“No, I mean, why…” He stops, closes his eyes briefly, then looks at me. “Never mind.”

I’m not sure what just happened. “What?”

“Changing your name,” he says. “There’s sanctuary in being somebody else.” He seems like he knows what he’s talking about, and for the first time, I wonder what he was like before he was Spike.

He starts to wander around the apartment, examining my stuff. There’s not much to see. I don’t have much furniture, just a kitchen table with two chairs, one of which has a broken leg, at one end of the room, my mattress on the floor at the other end, and a ratty sofa sort of in the middle. I don’t really have anything in the way of decorating – just a couple picture frames on a cinderblock next to my bed. My mom in one, Willow and Xander in the other.

Spike notices them and says, “Your mum must be worried sick.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe not.”

Spike looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head, so I explain, “We had a fight before I left. She told me if I walked out the door, don’t even think about coming back. So I didn’t.”

He just shakes his head at me. “Don’t mean she doesn’t love you. Don’t mean she’s not out of her head with missing you.”

“She’s probably relieved I’m gone,” I say, even though I really don’t think that. Spike gives me a look that says he doesn’t think that, either, and I get defensive. “She couldn’t deal with what I was.”

“’S not like you gave her much of a chance to adjust.”

My head tingles with rage, and there’s a slightly hysterical tone to my voice. “Now you’re taking her side?!”

He shakes his head again. “I’m on no one’s side, love. Just think maybe you oughta think of someone else besides yourself once in a while.”

Now I’m really seeing red. “How dare you!” I fling myself at him and pound on his chest. “Think of someone else? _I killed Angel!_ I loved him more than anything, and I killed him because it was the right thing to do!” I’m fighting back tears, and my fists have slowed down now, so Spike can grasp me by the wrists and hold me still.

It’s like a crack in the dam, and now there’s a flood, and all the thoughts and feelings I’ve been trying to bury are resurfacing again and before I know it, I’m crying, and the whole awful thing is coming back, all the pain I caused, and I just wanted it to stop, and I had to leave because I didn’t know how to make it okay again. Everything I put my friends through, and Giles was tortured and Kendra was killed, and they thought I did it, and I got expelled from school… and Mom, she was so angry, and there was nothing I could – I had to save the world, I had to –

And I think maybe I deserve this, because it’s my fault Angel went bad, and it’s my fault I couldn’t kill him when I had the chance, and if I had maybe Miss Calendar would still be alive, and Kendra, and, oh God, why couldn’t I be stronger? I can’t forgive myself for that, and I can’t forgive myself for killing him, and it’s something they’ll never understand, and so I had to go away, don’t you see?

I had to.

Eventually, I realize that Spike is still there. I’ve sort of collapsed in his grip and he’s half-supporting me, looking utterly perplexed at my breakdown. I quickly pull away, move to the bed and sit with my back to him.

“Buffy,” he starts, but he’s at a loss for words.

I don’t want to hear them anyway. I shake my head. “Please go.”

He does, without question, slipping out quietly with vampire stealth, despite my creaky floorboards. I hear the click of the door closing, and then I lay myself down on the bed.

I cry until I fall asleep, and when I wake up the next morning, I’m still in my work uniform, wrinkled and smelling like fried food and faintly of cigarettes. My head hurts, one of those headaches you get from crying a lot, and when I look in the mirror my eyes are puffy and red.

I feel like a fool for crying like that – especially in front of Spike, of all people – but there’s some part of me that feels relieved, as though a humungous weight has been lifted. I’d been holding it all inside, because it was too hard to sort through all the pain and the guilt and the fear. But you can only hold so much, you know? And I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders on a regular day, and this, on top of all that, completely just kicked my ass.

Speaking of ass-kickings, I’m still sore from the fight with Spike. The mirror tells me I’m pretty banged up, and I just know Ellie’s gonna have a fit when she sees it.

I take a moment to wrap my head around the fact that Spike could’ve killed me last night – and didn’t. What the hell was that about? I mean, I know he said that thing about it not being a challenge, but really, a slayer’s a slayer, right? One more notch on his belt. I just can’t believe that he’d really feel sorry for me, or care about me… and yet, here he was in my apartment, holding me while I cried my eyes out.

I think back to what he said about my mother, how she’s probably missing me. I miss her, too, and my friends, and more than anything, I wish I didn’t have to cope with killing Angel alone. But how can I go back to them, how can I ever open up and let them in, when the past six months have been a constant reminder of how much there is to lose?

No, better to do this, to live this way, so that there’s nothing to lose, and no one to hurt.


	5. Spike

Don’t look at me like that.

Don’t. There’s just some things you have to do, even if you don’t know why or what for. This was one of those things. I’m not going soft.

But I’m still feeling the mellow acquiescence of last night’s détente, so I pop ’round to her diner. I’m wary as I seat myself, in case she’s remembered what the pointy sticks are for, but she just gives me a meaningful look and disappears into the kitchen. I notice her movements are a little stiff, and her face is bruised from our fight, but I can’t quite bring myself to feel bad about it.

When she finally comes over to my table, she’s carrying a tray of food. She sets down a plate in front of me with the rarest steak I’ve ever seen, a baked potato, and – bless her heart – cole slaw instead of lima beans. She’s got a platter for herself, too, a sandwich and chips – sorry, fries – and sits down to eat with me.

There’s an older bird at the counter, another waitress who has her watchful eye trained on me, an expression of disapproval on her face. Slayer sees my glance and leans across the table to whisper confidentially, “They think you’re my boyfriend.” She gives the distrustful waitress a wavering smile. “And that you beat me.”

I can't avoid the smirk. “Well, they’re half right.” She smiles at me in return.

“Thanks,” I say, gesturing to the food. “How’re you –”

She cuts me off. “I don't want to talk about it.”

We eat in silence for a while, but I guess she changes her mind about not wanting to talk about it, because she says, “I still miss him.”

It’s so quiet I might not have heard it at all if I hadn’t been a vampire, and for a moment I wonder if maybe she didn’t mean to say it out loud. “What?”

“I still miss him,” she says again. “You probably think it’s crazy, after what he did, but I can’t help it.”

“It’s not crazy,” I tell her. “Listen…” She looks up from her plate. “You should go home.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“For God’s sake, Slayer, stop living the bloody Lifetime movie already and go back to your mum.”

She flinches as if I’ve hurt her. “It’s not like that. It’s not as simple as –”

“No.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the ticket I bought before coming here. “You're getting on that bus and going back to Sunnydale where you belong.”

She looks almost touched by the gesture, but still she refuses. “Spike, no, I –”

“Listen to me!” I say. “You have any idea what you'd have to look forward to if you stayed here? Living in a slum, taking orders from tossbags who treat you like a piece of meat, this cesspool of poverty and mediocrity? You’re a slayer, a goddamned hero. You don’t belong here. This place’ll chew you up and spit you out. Is this really the life you want?”

“You’re just saying that to make me go,” she sniffs.

“I'm saying it because it's true.” Speechifying over, I recline back in the booth and look at her.

“Yeah. You make it sound so easy, like all I have to do is hop on a bus and the Sunnydale welcoming committee will be waiting to say, ‘Hey, here’s your old life back.’”

It’s not that easy, I know that. Her old life is gone forever. This thing has rocked her to the core, shaken the very foundations of everything she thought she knew about herself. Nothing will ever be the same again.

“If you don’t go back, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.”

After a moment, she says, “I don’t know what I’d be going back to. I don’t even know if I can be the Slayer anymore. What kind of slayer falls in love with a vampire? What kind of slayer puts the people she cares for in danger?”

I shrug. “Okay, so you’re not a very good slayer.” She kicks my shin under the table. “Ow. But it's not really a choice. You _are_ the Slayer. And I'm not talking about duty or destiny or any of that rot. I'm talking about you. It's in you. It’s not something you can run away from.”

She looks at me sullenly. “I can’t believe I’m taking advice from a vampire on how to be the Slayer,” she mutters, but she knows I’m right. She knew it when she ran Angel through with a sword. That's what made it so hard. Even though she loved him, she couldn’t stop being the Slayer. She couldn’t fight it then, and she can’t fight it now. Doesn’t stop her from trying, though.

I don’t press the issue after that, and we stick to witty banter for the rest of the meal. Stay away from all the hard topics. Never thought I’d be having heart-to-hearts with anyone, let alone a slayer.

“Louis,” I say, doing my best Bogart impression – which, admittedly, isn’t very good – “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

She stares at me, and for a moment I wonder if she even has any idea what I’m talking about. Slayer doesn’t seem to be the type for black and white movies. Probably never even seen anything made before she was born. Then she laughs.

“You’re insane, you know that, right?”

When I chuckle at that, she adds, “I’m serious. You and Dru make a great pair with the his-and-hers psychological problems.”

My jaw drops. “His-and-hers… I don’t have any psych– I’m a psychopath, but I don’t have a problem with that.”

She’s speechless at first, then her face softens and she says, “You know the next time I see you, I’m gonna have to kill you, right?”

“Oh, yeah, pet. Definitely,” I reply. “Same here.”

*****

It’s been two days since I’ve seen her. I’ve been over to the diner, but she hasn’t shown up to work. I don’t go in, just hang around the outside, sneaking glances in the windows. I think I know what’s happened, and I think I’m happy; but just to be sure, I stop by her place.

Just as I suspected, the apartment's vacant. There's a note, folded in half and taped to the door. I read it and smile.

And just like that, it's over. No threats, no promises, no goodbyes. No seething hatred, but no love lost, either. I'm not sure what I'll do the next time I see her, if we'll fight, if I'll kill her. Maybe she'll kill me.

Maybe we'll never see each other again. I figure there's a new Slayer all chosen by now, since Dru killed that other one back in May. Maybe I'll go find her, see if she measures up to the other three I’ve fought. I’m pretty sure there’s one Slayer I’ll never see the equal of, but for now, I’m content to let her be.

I light up a cigarette and check out the bar next to her building, which looks like a real dive. Sit myself down next to a rough-looking brunette. She’s pretty, after I suck down a bourbon or two, and she hardly screams when I sink my teeth into her throat out in the alley. She collapses against me, her arms still wrapped around my neck from that last deadly kiss. Her blood pulses through me, making me warm, making me hard, sating the primal urges my body and my demon long for.

Just as her heart skips that first beat, I glance up at the apartment building and my eyes focus on the window that belonged to the Slayer.

The girl’s limp now, her heartbeat stilled. Her lips are parted slightly, in shock I suppose, and I close my mouth around them, sliding my tongue, slick with blood, over her unresponsive one. Breaking the kiss, I give the window a wry grin and say, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”


End file.
